


Dear Marje: Ineffable Partners Edition

by Periwinkle2016



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Drunk Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drunk Crowley (Good Omens), Epistolary, Getting Together, Holding Hands, Implied Cuddling & Snuggling, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other, Relationship Advice, Stealth Moving In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Periwinkle2016/pseuds/Periwinkle2016
Summary: He keeps holding my hand, did I mention we're holding hands now?! Because we are. It’s a thing. It’s bloody fantastic, it is. But you see why I can’t bollocks this up.Or, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley both repeatedly write to the same problems page for relationship advice. Misunderstandings, shenanigans, and dramatic irony ensue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 90





	1. shaking hands

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [miraworos' reply](https://miraworos.tumblr.com/post/615558884320542720/i-am-a-sucker-for-the-miscommunication-trope-and) to a Tumblr post by VirtualCarrot. (This fic is much more cracky/less angsty than the original post, though.)

Dear Marje,

Recently, my friend and I retired. Which is great because our jobs kept us from openly being friends. Now, we’re free from all of that.

Even better, we’ve been growing closer since we retired. We spend more time together, and we touch each other’s hands regularly. On purpose. Intentionally. Me and him, palm to palm. For the whole bloody world to see! It’s downright decadent, it is.

The only problem is that I think my friend wants us to grow even closer. Like, so close that we elapse the bounds of a typical, twenty-first century friendship. Which Somebody knows, I am _all_ for. I just don’t know how to make it happen without going too fast.

You see, he knows how much I want to share everything with him. I declared it years ago and then again recently. Both times, he wasn’t ready for things to change, which was **fine**. He is the most precious being that will ever be Created. Human words can’t even begin to describe how much getting to be his friend means to me.

It’s just, his former head office tried to deprive him of a lot of things that make him happy. And now that we’re free, I want him to have exactly everything that he needs and wants. And I really do think he wants our relationship to change.

The other day, an awkward human assumed we were a couple, and he flipping beamed. It was beautiful. It was enough to make you squint, unless you were clever enough to be wearing sunglasses. I had to leave the room before the sight of it made me wrap myself around him and squeeze like a really strong squeezy thing.

How do I encourage my friend to go after whatever he likes most without making him feel pressured? He knows what all _I_ want to give him. Practically a walking, cocoa-drinking love detector, him. But I want him to choose whatever _he_ wants. And I think that us being together in a new way might be a part of that?

Stay cool,  
Tony

* * *

Dear Tony,

First, I want to congratulate you on your and your friend’s retirements. I have recently retired myself, and it’s quite an exciting time. However, retirement is also a big transition. It’s natural to experience some anxiety and disappointment as you work to adjust to all of the changes. Be kind to yourself and to your friend as you settle into your new lives.

Now, I’ll do my best to give you a spot of relationship advice. It was very brave of you to tell your friend how you feel about him. I commend you for using direct, honest communication.

I feel duty-bound to ask, however, if you are certain that your friend truly knows you love him. Even though you’ve told him twice, the professional pressures that you mentioned make me wonder whether your friend fully processed your declarations.

Knowing something logically and believing it with your heart are two very different things, love. I recommend that you try to show him how you feel through your actions. Let him see and feel how strongly you love him. Give him some time to explore how much you love him.

You see, your friend and I actually have a good deal in common. I’m also rather skilled at “detecting” people’s feelings, and I was friends with my current partner for a long time before we became a couple. We originally knew each other through work, and I suspected that he cared for me in a special way for years before initiating our relationship. It was only after a few big gestures on his part and our own retirements that I felt comfortable “being with him in a new way.”

As you noted, you’re both free to do as you please now. Keep loving your friend. Respect his boundaries, and have fun exploring all of the new activities you can share together. Above all, give your friend time to rediscover how much he enjoys spending time with you, and keep in mind how much you enjoy spending time with him.

Yours sincerely,  
Marjorie Potts

* * *

Dear Mx. Marje,

I am afraid that I am in a bit of a pickle, but research has led me to believe that you may be able to offer me some advice. I find myself longing for increased intimacy with a dear friend of mine, but I’m not certain whether he would welcome something so nice. For the sake of brevity, since this letter will be printed as part of a periodical, I will henceforth refer to my friend as C.

Dearest C and I have known each other for quite a long time. In fact, it might amuse you to learn that when we first met, our relationship was a smidge… adversarial. That’s not to say that our personalities ever crashed. We simply held contradictory professional goals, in the beginning.

Over the years, we bore witness to a wide array of events together, and we are now, I believe, demonstrably friends. We spend time together for the sole purpose of enjoying each other’s company. And, we have started our own personal tradition of exchanging a handshake every time that we meet or part ways. It’s absolutely delightful.

You see, until recently, we only shook hands to mark the beginning of significant collaborative endeavours. As C would say, walls have eyes. But now, we shake hands multiple times almost every day. It feels like magic to be free to declare our loyalty to each other whenever we like. Not to mention, our hands seem to have been designed to fit together perfectly. As the modern saying goes, shaking hands with C cleans my skin and sprays my plants.

Despite all of the lovely handshakes we have shared, the desire to touch C for longer periods of time beleaguers my mind. You see, we recently **held** each other’s hands for the duration of an omnibus ride, and it felt positively splendid. I’d really like to repeat the experience, but I can’t seem to figure out how to effectuate it. ~~~~

And, oh alright, I suppose it would be useful to you for me to share _all_ of the potentially relevant information. I am just a mite concerned that C doesn’t want our relationship to incorporate more touch. C is the sort of fellow who embrace new things whenever they suit him, yet he has never reached to hold my hand. _I_ initiated the contact that we shared on the omnibus, and I can’t help but wonder why he has never returned the gesture.

Of course, I don’t mean to imply that C is aloof. He seems to enjoy our handshakes as much as I do, and he did ask me to run away with him twice. I would dare say he is fairly fond of me, at least in a general sort of way. However, a certain incident last Tuesday has led me to question whether C might be adverse to the idea of us expressing our affection for one another through more unequivocal means.

It was a small thing, really. A shared acquaintance of ours misunderstood the nature of our relationship and complimented us on how long we had been together. I found it charming, but C responded with acute embarrassment. He stammered out a few unintelligible sounds, fled the room, and blatantly avoided both me and poor Newton for the remainder of the social call. It really was not the most encouraging of signs.

Now, I want to be absolutely clear that I do not view my friendship with C as lacking in any way. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had and a far kinder one than I likely deserve. I simply worry that, if I were to ask C to hold hands, he would never pause to consider declining. The idea of holding hands again is almost unbearably tempting, but I don’t want C to agree to anything he doesn't want. Perhaps I ought to wait a few decades before indicating my interest?

Yours faithfully,  
A. Francis

* * *

Dear Mr. Francis,

I’m very happy to hear that you and your friend are now free to enjoy spending time together. It sounds like you have had to wait a long time to be honest about how much you care for each other. Given your shared history, your new tradition of shaking hands represents a marvelous triumph. 

If you’re interested in holding C’s hand again, I don’t think that it’s necessary for you to wait any longer before broaching the subject. Instead, my advice to you is to try a bit of direct communication. I know that doing so may sound daunting, but I really think that it’s the best way for you two to move forward. Tell C what you want, and trust him to be honest in return.

Some readers at home may think it’s silly to plan a conversation about holding hands, but don’t you mind them. Every relationship is different, and you know C much better than I or any of my readers do. If you think that holding hands constitutes a significant event in your relationship, I trust your judgement on the matter. Even if you and C are able to settle the question of holding hands quickly, nothing has been lost by your initial letter. Your desire not to act without your partner’s enthusiastic consent is perfectly sound.

At the same time, I think that C might surprise you, once you start an honest chat about how the two of you might like your relationship to change. Based on what you’ve shared, it sounds as if C has a big heart that he tries to hide. If that’s the case, he might be more eager to hold hands than you think.

On a related note, are you sure C was unhappy when Newton mistook you two for a couple? Perhaps he was embarrassed that a third party had called attention to how much you mean to him. Just something to consider, whenever you’ve got the time.

Regarding holding hands, however, you don’t need to wait any longer to ask C about it. Be brave, love. Let him know how you feel, and respect his honest response. You’ll both be better off once you do. Best of luck to you and C, as you enjoy each other’s company in whatever way you choose.

Yours sincerely,  
Marjorie Potts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rough draft is finished; I plan to update on Tuesdays. Madame Tracy’s responses will be shorter in all of the other chapters because they weren’t as much fun to write.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	2. shocking excuses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale decides to communicate his feelings by holding Crowley's hand and telling him that he loves him. Ngk, Crowley.exe is not responding!

Dear Marje,

I followed your advice and tried to tell him how I feel through a big gesture. Decades ago, my friend - ugh, I’m going to call him A - and I agreed to go on a picnic, but we never got around to it. So, for the past week, I’ve been gathering foods and special treats.

Don’t even ask if I’m stalling; I would never leave A waiting like that. I just want everything to be perfect for him. Humans gripe and moan if they’re told to go to the supermarket only once a fortnight. Imagine how long a shopping list gets when you’ve been adding to it for sixty years.

Anyway, I was doing what you said to do. I was putting together a picnic to destroy all other picnics. Slaughter them as mercilessly and cannibalistic-ly as the best pig in a sounder of starving pigs, it would have. And it was going to make A so blessed happy. Then, he mucked it all up by saying that he loves me!

We were just sitting on our bench, not a care in the world (devil himself included.) And out of nowhere, he smites me with a massive wallop of unprovoked candor! Plain as the beak on a bird’s face! (I mean, assuming the bird hasn’t ground it down trying to sharpen it on the side of a mountain.) How am I supposed to respond to that? For Heaven’s sake, A!

I haven’t told him that I love him back yet. I really wanted to, but you can’t just announce things like that in public, right? We were in the park. There were multiple ducks around, who were probably listening to us.

Also, I remembered that you said to use gestures instead of words, and it’s worked so far, yeah? I wasn’t sure if a “I still love you and want you to have whatever makes you happy” picnic would also work as a “I love you, too” gesture. Let me know what you think.

In fact, you need to tell me what to do as soon as possible. I expect you to reply immediately after reading this. Because, I’ve been pretending not to hear him every time he says it, but I don’t know how much longer I can resist the urge to say it back. He keeps holding my hand, _did I mention we’re holding hands now_?! Because we are. It’s a thing. It’s bloody fantastic, it is. But you see why I can’t bollocks this up.

IF YOU EVER WANT TO RIDE A LIFT AGAIN WITHOUT HAVING TO WAIT FOR IT, YOU HAD BETTER RESPOND BEFORE HE NOTICES THAT I’M ACTING STRANGELY!

TELL ME WHAT TO DO NOW!  
Tony

* * *

Dear Tony,

It’s going to be alright, love. To start us out, I’d like you to take three deep breaths for me. That’s it, there you go. You’re going to make it through this, just fine.

Now, your feelings are valid, and I appreciate you trusting me enough to write for more advice. Truly, thank you for your confidence. But, I’m afraid that I don’t completely understand what’s upsetting you.

What about A saying that he loves you worries you? You’d mentioned recently telling him that you love him. Do you think that those feelings might have changed? Or were you just surprised that he said it back with words? Now that you’ve had a bit more time to think it over, how does his statement make you feel?

Regarding the advice, dear: I did suggest that you try to use gestures. That’s true. But, in a relationship, it’s also very important to communicate through words. If you would still like to grow closer with A, I recommend telling him you love him as soon as possible. And even if you decide you would prefer a different outcome, it’s only decent to let him know where the two of you stand.

The picnic you're planning sounds lovely. For future reference, it would work wonderfully as an “I love you, too” gesture.

Lastly, I’ll have you know that I don’t appreciate your tone, young man. I am happy to tell you what to do, but I expect you to kindly refrain from telling me what to do. I will not tolerate threats, and if you ever write to me in such a rude manner again, catching a lift will be the least of your worries.

Yours sincerely,  
Marjorie Potts

* * *

Dear Mx. Marje,

Per your advice, I employed “direct communication”: I told C that I love him. It went swimmingly. Following the communication, we held hands for approximately 164 minutes, and we have now held hands on five separate occasions. C hasn’t _initiated_ any of our handholding, but I am confident that he enjoys it immensely. He isn’t always as suave as he would like you to believe.

Only one piffling issue remains. I think that C might be allergic to love. Not the feeling, mind you. Just the word itself.

A few weeks ago, I said the word “love” to him twice, and he responded by hitting a girl and her velocipede with his car! He _says_ that she hit him; regardless, she and the car _were_ hit. That sounds like an allergic reaction, doesn’t it? I’ve heard warnings not to operate machinery if you’re experiencing corporal distress.

Furthermore, whenever I tell him that I love him, he splutters and changes the subject toot sweet. Which is _fine_ , of course, I know how he is, and I cherish it. I just suspect that something else may be afoot. He has been acting in an _especially_ odd manner, as of late.

For example, after I told him that I loved him for the fifth time, he shouted that he had accidentally left toast in his toaster and _sprinted_ out of the bookshop. And he knows that I know that he doesn’t own a toaster. 

You see, a little over sixty years ago, I told him a rib-tickling anecdote about my toaster giving me an unexpectedly powerful electrical shock. Fortunately, lightning falls within my, shall we say, professional skill set, so it didn’t harm me in the slightest. I am _quite_ adept at safely handling electrons.

To this day, however, C insists on holding a horrible grudge against my innocent toaster and all of its kind. I have reason to believe that he even fueled the “toast toasted on one side” movement as part of an underhanded attempt to oust all toasters from the British Isles.

As another example, after I told C that I loved him for the eighteenth time, he acted as though he had lost the ability to use human language. He refused to make any sounds other than _Ssssss_ , and he didn’t even bother to turn into a snake for the ruse! He just remained sprawled across my couch, defiantly hissing! He was, however, quite surprised (and, dare I say, impressed) to learn that I already _knew_ Parcel-Tongue was fictitious.

Aside from C’s particularly strange antics, everything is just tickety-boo! I’m simply writing, my dear advisor, to inquire if you have any additional advice for me? After all, your earlier suggestions have yielded such marvelous results. And, while I treasure every variety of C’s company, I am _always_ interested in the possibility of increasing the intimacy we share.

Yours faithfully,  
A. Francis

* * *

Dear Mr. Francis,

I am very proud of you. It took a lot of bravery for you to communicate with C directly. Well done, love. I'm also very happy to hear that the conversation went well and that you and C have begun to hold hands.

I agree with you that there’s probably _something_ going on with your friend, but I'm not completely convinced that it's an allergy to the word "love." Have you tried to consider recent events from your friend's perspective? It sounds like you've initiated a couple of big firsts for the two of you within a short period of time.

I suggest that you check in with your friend. Ask whether things have been going too quickly for him, and listen carefully to his responses. It'll give you another chance to practice "direct communication."

Sometimes, if you really want a relationship to last, it can be best to proceed slowly. Think about how long you and C have been friends. Do you think that your friendship benefitted from the amount of time that you spent laying its foundations? These new elements of your relationship with C work the same way.

Take some time to make sure that both of you are completely, intentionally, enthusiastically on board with any increases in intimacy. Above all, tell and show him that you respect his space. Check in with him frequently, and abide by his boundaries.

You're both doing marvelously, dear!  
Marjorie Potts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Updates will continue to be on Tuesdays. :)


	3. shifting furniture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale ardently respects Crowley’s space. Crowley _finally_ uses words to say “I love you.”

Dear Mx. Marje, 

Thank you, dear wise person, with the greatest sincerity I am able to offer. Since our last correspondence, I have been treating C’s space with the utmost respect, and everything is simply smashing. 

Immediately after receiving your most recent brilliant advice, I began to faithfully check in with C’s flat once to thrice a day. At first, C seemed a bit alarmed by the little look-sees, but he quickly grew to appreciate them. As I compose this letter, I do so with absolute certainty that C is, as you would say, “completely on board” with my observation of his property. 

In accordance with your recommendation, I have scrupulously kept C abreast of all of my interactions with his flat. The first few times I informed him of my efforts to respect his space, he seemed inexplicably embarrassed. Initially, I was concerned that he viewed his space as unworthy of my respect, but I was able to determine that the true cause of his apparent discomfort is much more pleasant. 

You see, while I was respectfully improving C’s flat last Tuesday, I got peckish. And I thought, well, C has a pantry that is larger than most water closets. Surely he won’t mind if I help myself to a nibble or two. 

What I found in C’s pantry changed everything. The poor thing was jam-packed with a floor-to-ceiling smorgasbord of our favorite foods. It was a truly overwhelming sight. 

After extracting a box of Jaffa Cakes and pensively eating the first pack, I experienced a momentous epiphany. C was nesting. And, he was nesting for me. 

All at once, C’s recent recalcitrance made sense. He is very fond of using big gestures to express his feelings, but the process of planning them always gives him the collywobbles. All I had to do was play the cucumber until he was ready to proceed. After all, it wouldn’t do for the old snake to learn that his dashing scheme had been thwarted by a quest for cake. 

Ultimately, my patience was rewarded. I was in C’s flat, sprucing it up as is now my wont, and C said to me, as plain as a pikestaff, “Gosh, I love you.” 

And _oh_ , it was just so wonderful to hear. And the poor boy seemed so dreadfully nervous. And C _has_ been telling me not to deny myself things that I really want. So I didn’t. I embraced him. 

Of course, once I began to hug him, the dear fellow actually _did_ lose the ability to communicate through vocal language. So it may have been a tad foolish of me to interrupt what I am sure would have been an irresistibly lovely invitation. But during the bout of spluttering, he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed just right. And really, that said more than enough. 

And so, my dear advisor, I am afraid that it is time for me to write a final valediction. Know that you helped an age-old love to flourish. Be well. 

Eternally grateful and faithfully yours,  
A. Francis

* * *

Dear Mr. Francis, 

First, I would like to offer my congratulations to you and C. It is always a pleasure to hear that things are working out well for my clients. 

To be completely honest with you, when I first suggested that you respect C’s space, I did not intend for you to redecorate his flat. I would also like to caution readers against attempts to replicate your success. However, I’m glad it yielded happy results for you and C. 

I have to admit that you have caught my interest, dear. What do you mean by nesting? Moving in together? Entering into a committed relationship? Curious readers may have to satisfy themselves with speculation. 

It has been an absolute pleasure corresponding with you, love. Please don’t hesitate to write me in the future, either for a friendly chat or for additional advice. I wish you and C all of the very best. 

Yours sincerely,  
Marjorie Potts

* * *

Dear Marje, 

I did it. I told him I love him. I even did it with words. I didn’t mean to, but it happened. And he seemed really happy to hear the words, so yeah. I guess the words worked. 

Originally, I was going to stick to the plan. Not normally one for plans, me, but he’s worth it. He deserves whatever’ll make him happy. 

But, the problem was, the _problem_ waz, he kept showing up in my flat. I mean, ‘s not really a problem, ‘course not, never is when it’s him. It just made it hard to keep the picnic a surprise. Got a bit dicey, him popping in unannounced at all hours and me having to make sure he wasn't nearby before yelling at the pantry to grow taller. 

To make matters worse, my flat is always whinging to A now. It told him it was “chilly,” and he lavished it with fluffy blankets and squishy furniture for _days_. I have no idea why he's suddenly giving it so much attention, and I can’t _ask_ him about it. 

Whenever A notices me watching him add things to the flat, he announces that he’s trying to “respect my space.” And then he does that thing where he draws himself up in the way that says, “I am trying to be brave here, but I’m actually very nervous, so if you say anything about it, I'll start apologizing, and it'll be your fault my feathers get so ruffled." So of course I pretend not to see any of it. 

Anyway, my point is, Operation Watch Him Picnic was still go. There were just a few more preparations to finish up. But then, this afternoon, he was in my plant room, whispering _kind_ things. (He thinks I can’t tell when he’s talking to my plants instead of my flat, but I can.) And he said, well it doesn’t matter what he said to a plant, but then I said, “Gosh, I love you.” 

I didn’t mean to! It just slipped out. And I said it quietly, but he _heard_ , and then he **hugged** me?! 

Him. Hugging me. 

Me. Getting hugged by him. 

So, I hugged him back? 

Yeah. That was a thing. 

Now, he’s shelving books in one of the rooms that appeared the first time he showed up to “respect my space.” Because that’s a thing he does now: adds rooms to my flat and uses them to give it shelves and shelves of books that he’s hoarded for centuries. Probably trying to cheer it up. I told him coddling it wouldn’t teach it anything, but he said it deserves to be happy. 

And I’m in my office, inspecting the ceiling. Leo would say I’m pacing, but that’s slander, that is. Demons don’t pace; demons glower at others menacingly and make them pace. I’m just, making sure the office knows not to go complaining to A and making him _worry_. And I’m a bit drunk, so ‘s a bit wobbly up here. 

But, my point is: I told him I love him. And he hugged me. That’s my point. 

You’re a witch, aren’t you? Do you have a cat? Must do, if you’re a witch. What’s its name? I bet it’s got a great name. Cattiest cat name that a cat s’ever had. Fantastic at naming things, you. You’re not God, are you?

‘S got to be that, or you’re a witch. So, just tell me what you want. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just don’t take this away, alright? 

I’m not telling you what to do. I know you said not to do that, and I’m listening, I am. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted? 

I’m just letting you know. Whatever you want. _Whatever_ you want. I’ll give it to you. Just let him be happy, okay? Let us keep this? 

Please,  
Tony

* * *

Dear Reader, 

I apologize for publishing the letter included above. It was not my decision to do so. 

For some reason, it remains displayed as part of my column, no matter how many times I remove it from the draft’s text. I have tried restarting my computer, using a different internet connection, and running anti-virus software, but the problem persists. I even allowed Mr. S to perform an exorcism, to no avail. 

If the issue continues next week, I will reach out to an acquaintance of mine who may be able to offer a solution. He is actually a book collector by trade, but he has mentioned that he has quite a dab hand for magic. 

Rest assured that I am neither a witch nor God. It’s hardly anyone’s business, but I also do not own a cat. They make my partner uncomfortable. Furthermore, any advice printed in this column is offered without charge or any expectation of compensation. 

Yours sincerely,  
Marjorie Potts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting this chapter multiple times; I accidentally posted it before I was finished editing. I hope it didn't mess up the alerts. 
> 
> Updates will continue to be on Tuesdays. Thank you for reading!


	4. shedding inhibitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale moves his toaster into Crowley’s flat. Crowley is less than pleased.
> 
> Crowley stress-cleans. Aziraphale is bad at zoology.

Dear Marje,

I didn’t mean for you to receive that last email. My **former** mobile has been punished for its behaviour, and my new one knows better than to ever send something I don’t _actually_ want sent. A bottle of Château d’Yquem should’ve appeared in your cellar, my treat. So, enjoy, and forget ever reading that whole last letter.

Now, about how things’re going with A… I might have asked him to move in with me? And he accepted. So, yeah. Honestly, ‘s not that different. He still comes over everyday, whenever he wants, and absolutely buries my flat with coziness. It’s just more official now, I guess.

It all started when that bloody toaster of his decided to add trespassing to its charge sheet. The depraved, antwacky sod **accidentally** wound up crushed by a falling piano. But how else am I supposed to react when an aspiring killer shows up in the kitchen without warning? It was self-defense. ‘Sides, that thing is pure evil and it chose to stay in the piano’s path. Deserved everything it got.

‘Course, A disagreed. He was miffed by the “unwarranted destruction” of the homicidal maniac he had been merrily harbouring for decades. Naturally, I did my best to defend my perfectly reasonable desire not to be threatened with discorporation in my own flat.

I thought we were just arguing as usual, but then A went quiet. His face switched to silent mode, feelings all _politely_ tucked away, body doing its best not to take up space. Before I could even begin to figure out what'd gone wrong, he drew himself up, announced that he wouldn’t want to stay somewhere he wasn’t welcome, and marched out of the flat.

I was left alone. I had messed up, and I knew I had to fix it. So, I went out and bought a much better, _modern_ toaster. (It’ll even toast toast on only one side.) Then, I fixed his ancient, iniquitous toaster, threatened both of ‘em not to ever shock someone for sticking things in ‘em, and cleaned up the piano. (Bread! The _non_ -murderous toaster toasts bread! Not toast.)

After all that, I wasn’t sure what to do. I wanted to show him his bloodthirsty toaster was fixed, but I didn’t want to upset him by taking it out of the flat. While I plotted my next move, I took all of the picnic supplies out of the pantry and made sure none of them were slacking off. Just as I was finishing up the inspection, A returned.

In my experience, second chances aren’t always offered, so I launched myself at the opportunity to patch things up. I showed him both of the toasters, and I told him he could change anything he wanted in the flat. I said he makes the best changes, all the changes I really need, and I gave him a copy of the rental contract where I’d added him as a co-tenant. (I would've given him a key, but he already had one.) Then, I broke out a bottle of Côte-Rôtie and toasted our two toasters.

A seemed a bit surprised at first, but he was beaming by the time I raised my glass. He repeated the toast, wiggled a bit, and everything was hunky-dory. A knows anywhere I live is automatically too cool for ancient “computing machines” or bloody tartan, so we skipped spelling out the details of our new arrangement for the alcohol.

The only weird thing is that he keeps asking me cryptic, pointed questions. I’m not sure what all he thinks I’ve agreed to. For example, while we were enjoying the wine, he asked me, “‘Owley, are you a snake?”

Which is a reference to how we met, so I answered back, “ ‘Course, yeah, you know I am. That’s me, I’m the original bloody Snake. All the other seprentsssss, snekssssss - all those other slithery bastards just copied it from me. Big trend-setter, me. Very future-looking.”

Apparently, that wasn’t the response he was looking for because he frowned and his forehead got all wrinkly with serious thoughts. Then, he said slowly (in that adorable voice that means he’s pissed as a fish that’s having a wee in the pool, but trying to speak clearly), “But you also re-, ris-, you’re also like a gorilla?”

I thought about it really carefully, since it seemed important to him, and I said, “Yeah.” Then I twisted around a bit on the couch and kicked my feet through the air to prove it.

After all, I’ve got two legs just like a gorilla. I used not to have any (or, at least, none like gorillas’ve got), but now I have two. Don’t know how you get more like a gorilla than that. Damn leggy legs.

A replied, “Oh, I’m so glad.” At the time, he looked so happy, I just felt happy, too. But now, I think he thinks I gave him permission to bring tartan into the flat.

You see, A’s clever as anything, but he always gets the strangest ideas about animals when he’s drunk. Like gorillas building nests. Drunk him probably thinks that snakes don’t like tartan (which is mostly true), but gorillas do (which they definitely don’t.)

Anyway, that’s about everything that’s happened so far. A keeps asking questions about my bed, though, so I’m expecting tartan bedclothes to show up any day now.

A co-tenant with two toasters,  
Tony

* * *

Dear Mx. Marje,

I would be absolutely chuffed to continue our correspondence. It’s the least I can do after all of your assistance. And, to be perfectly honest, I greatly enjoy the freedom to share about my relationship with C.

Several developments of note have occurred since my last letter. The first is that C and I had our very first domestic as cohabitants! It all began when C destroyed my toaster. He _claimed_ it was an accident, but I have yet to be entirely convinced. Regardless, C _initiated_ the hostilities.

I will admit that I was not precisely _pleased_ by the unwarranted vandalism, and my umbrage may have contributed to the disagreement. But C’s response was unequivocally not cricket. He said that he had never _invited_ my toaster into his flat and I had certainly never _asked_ him about bringing it over, and I. Well, I found myself in need of some solitude, so I departed for my bookshop. Heaven knows that I would hate to remain somewhere I wasn’t truly welcome.

Later that night, however, I was waylaid by an alarming thought. What if C wasn’t being an ill-mannered nestmate? That would, after all, be quite unlike him. What if, instead, he had never intended for me to nest with him?

You asked me to explain “nesting,” but the conjectures you offered were right on the mark. Nesting does involve sharing a home with someone. More importantly, building a nest together symbolizes that the involved beings have chosen each other as lifelong partners. Nestmates are allies, but above all, nestmates are each other’s home. So you can understand why I would expect C to invite me to nest with him, if he were to build a nest.

To explain why I doubted whether C nests, I will need to share a bit of background information. Hmm, how best to explain? Oh, yes, I know.

Suppose that I am an aardvark, and aardvarks nest. C was an aardvark once, but that was a long, long time ago. Now, he’s a duck instead and also a, a snail! And I haven’t the faintest idea whether ducks or snails nest.

You see, when ducks were first created, they were aardvarks, and they nested. But did they continue to nest after they became ducks? A short time ago, I would have assumed not, but I’ve recently learned that aardvarks and ducks are not all that different, really. At least, not in the ways that matter most.

Despite these misgivings, I decided to return to C’s flat on the following day. I wasn’t lonely! I was just worried the flat might miss me if I didn’t visit. After all, it _had_ grown quite accustomed to my daily visits, and it wasn’t its fault that C and I had argued.

At the flat, C and I conducted multiple rounds of direct communication. I confirmed that C does, in fact, nest. And C categorically declared that I was welcome to nest with him, provided that I leave the acquisition of all electrical and tartan objects to him.

I’m sure I can wangle some tartan into the flat, so there’s only one tiny matter that might benefit from your perspective. You see, some nestmates choose to snuggle with each other in their nests. If I were interested in trying such an activity with C, how would you recommend that I go about suggesting it?

Yours faithfully,  
A. Francis

* * *

Dear Tony and Mr. Francis,

Please read each other’s letters (included above) immediately and discuss them directly **with words**.

Thank you for the wine cellar,  
Marjorie Potts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended this fic to end with "fade to cuddles," but I think I have been convinced to write an epilogue. Assuming I wind up writing it, I will post it here, but I probably won't write it until December or later. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! It's been an absolute delight to think that people other than me have enjoyed this story.


	5. sharing correspondences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is bad at zoology. Aziraphale plays to win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wan tu som](https://medium.com/kontinentalist/how-rock-paper-scissors-is-played-around-asia-46d1d8c93be3) is a Malaysian hand game. It is very similar to rock paper scissors, but the three options are bird, water, and stone. I took some liberties with the gameplay, but I also think that Crowley and Aziraphale's versions of games might have ~~drifted to resemble British games~~ evolved over time.

A soft gasp snagged Crowley’s attention, and the silence that followed captured it.

The demon swung himself up off of the flat’s new, sinfully soft sofa and casually strode towards the kitchen.

He wasn’t worried, of course. There wasn’t anything[1] to worry about, now that he and Aziraphale were free agents.

It was just, Aziraphale was _never_ quiet, not when he was truly at ease. A happy Aziraphale was an audible Aziraphale -- one who fluttered and hummed and wiggled and tsked. When he was in a good mood, the angel even smiled loudly, and his bloody pout could drown out an entire storm’s worth of thunder.

Still, Crowley wasn’t _worried_. Knowing Aziraphale, the angel had probably just found another advert for Numatic vacuum cleaners and was mulling over how best to persuade Crowley that a hoover with a face on it was a domestic necessity.

Entering the kitchen revealed that Aziraphale was still in the process of preparing himself to argue on the monstrous hoover’s behalf. He jumped guiltily at Crowley’s appearance and quickly hid some sort of circular behind his back.

Ignoring the anxiety radiating off of Aziraphale, Crowley crossed the kitchen to flip on the coffee machine. He pulled down a mug, which brought him strategically closer to the suspiciously quiet angel, and artfully slouched against a nearby worktop.

“So,” he said innocently, “anything good come in the post?”

“No!” Aziraphale said, turning so that Crowley couldn’t see whatever he was holding behind his back. “No, nothing at all! Nothing interesting, that is, of course, the post _did_ come. You would know, you collected it!”[2]

“Right.” Crowley looked away to pour himself a cup of coffee, cleverly lulling the angel into a false sense of security. “D’you want any?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, his relief audible. “No, thank you, my dear.”

Crowley coolly returned to facing the angel, mug raised for a nice sip. Then, he caught sight of what Aziraphale was holding by his side and lunged.

“My dear boy!” Aziraphale protested, yanking the newsletter away.

“Where did that come from?” Crowley asked, glaring at the offending object as he willed it to reappear in his hand.

“How should I know? _You’re_ the one who brought it up and tossed it across the worktop.”

Crowley’s thoughts whizzed about a single gravitational primary: Aziraphale could not be allowed to read that.

“I-- yeah-- but, how’d you get it? You shouldn’t have _that_!”

“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed prissily, “I won’t apologize for looking over the post like I do _every morning_. After all, it would hardly do for you to bin something important again.”

And alright, the angel wasn’t completely wrong, but that didn’t mean Crowley had to admit it.

“Mmm, yeah, but it’s mine! So, just be a good angel, and give it here.”

Aziraphale drew himself up. “I beg your pardon. I most certainly will not. And, not that it’s any business of yours, but this missive is addressed to me.”

“Whatever, just--” wait, what? “--wait. Wot?!”

Crowley’s mind spun furiously. Aziraphale’s claim continued not to make any sense.

“But, I, you… yours?”

“Precisely,” Aziraphale said with exaggerated dignity, “so, as the _rightful_ recipient, I’ll put this away to peruse later.”

His hand rose to perform a miracle, and Crowley could **not** let that happen.

“No!” The demon sounded significantly more desperate than he would ever admit to. “No. Listen, I’ll. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll toss you for it.”

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale said, sounding at least partly genuinely cross. But his hand fell, so Crowley accepted his ire as a necessary casualty. “Must I repeat that this is mine? I have absolutely no reason to ‘toss’ you for it.”

“A different game then,”[3] Crowley insisted. “You think it’s yours, and I think it’s mine, so we’ll… compete for it. To settle whose it’ll actually be. It’ll be like the Arrangement. But better since we’re on our own side now.”

Aziraphale’s face softened at the reminder. Just a little more.

“Come on. For old times’ sake. It’s worked for us so far.”

Aziraphale relaxed with a dramatic exhale.

“Oh, very well.” His eyes darted away, before returning to meet Crowley’s. “You old snake--”

“Oi,” Crowley protested, purely out of habit.

“--but only if we play wan tu som.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” Crowley couldn’t help but grin at his success. It was like riding a, what were those things called? The ones with the spinning wheels?[4]

“Hold on a second.” Bicycles! “You _never_ win wan tu som. Why d’you want to play that?”

“Well, that’s, I might win!” Aziraphale spluttered. “There’s a first time for everything.”

“Yeah, but the fact that there’s a first time depends on there being a first time,” Crowley countered. “That’s circular logic, that is. Wouldn’t it be easier for you to go ahead and give it to me?”

Aziraphale’s spine straightened impossibly.

Crowley wasn’t finished. “It’s like a bicycle wheel, right? It’ll just go around and around and around and never actually _get_ anywhere. Not with all the spinning.”

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said, and oh, Crowley loved how he could make the phrase sound like such a rude epithet. “I think you will find that bicycles are, in fact, perfectly capable of movement.”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue, but Aziraphale ignored him. 

“Regardless, you have already agreed to my terms. Am I to believe that you’re reneging on your word?”

“Yeah, I mean no, I mean: angel, are you sure about this?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale’s expression remained stern, but his body stopped giving off such a strong impression of a lion preparing to swing its flaming sword.

“We can play a different game,” Crowley offered. “A round of Pank-a-Squith?”

“No,” Aziraphale said certainly, “but thank you.”

Crowley drew an unnecessary breath to insist, then paused. This was Aziraphale directly stating a preference. While Crowley had more experience responding to expectant silences of a different sort, he would always jump at an opportunity to affirm Aziraphale's wants. 

“Alright,” he said instead, relishing the way that Aziraphale seemed pleased but not utterly surprised by his agreement. “Wan tu som it is.”

He set his ~~prop~~ mug aside, then grinned at Aziraphale. “Ready to lose?”

“Absolutely not,” Aziraphale replied, eyes flashing pale blue. He placed the newsletter on the worktop, then turned back to face Crowley.

Crowley _could_ snatch the bloody thing now... but the angel clearly trusted him to keep his word. He would have to win the game instead.

He and Aziraphale each raised their fists. A screeching alarm in Crowley’s amygdala began to blare.

_Wan._

Aziraphale usually played water, which meant that Crowley should play bird.

 _Tu._

But, if Aziraphale was playing to win, he’d play stone, which meant Crowley should play water.

_Som._

Should Crowley play bird or water?

 _Shoot._

Crowley panickily made his move. He blinked. The sight of his hand curled into a fist persisted. He had played stone.

He looked at Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale had also played stone.

* * *

“You wily old serpent!” Aziraphale said, shocked.

Crowley _always_ played bird. By playing stone, the angel had thought he had been guaranteeing his victory.[5]

“Me?” Crowley said, wholly unrepentant.[6] “What about you? You _always_ play water. I was just trying to let you win!”

“No, but I-- you,” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “But _you_ always play bird. In all the years I’ve known you, not once have you ever played anything else. Let alone stone!”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Crowley needled. “And what do you mean ‘let alone stone’? What did the poor buggers ever do to you?”

“There _was_ that one kerfuffle during the fifth century,” Aziraphale said reflexively. They both grimaced at the memory. “But that’s hardly relevant. You _always_ play bird. Don’t deny it.”

“I didn’t _deny_ anything,” Crowley said, “because I haven’t _done_ anything wrong. Like I said, I was trying to let you win, you great pillock!”

“Well,” Aziraphale sniffed, virtuously refraining from snipping back.[7] “I suppose we ought to play a rematch then. To determine whether you’re telling the truth.”

“Right,” Crowley said, raising his hands at the ready.

“Right,” Aziraphale repeated, mirroring him.

They began.

_Wan._

Normally, Aziraphale would need to play stone to beat Crowley, but that hadn’t worked.

 _Tu._

Crowley claimed he was trying to let Aziraphale win. Could Aziraphale trust him?

_Som._

If Crowley was going to let him win, Aziraphale should play water.

_Shoot._

Aziraphale played water. Crowley played bird.

“You utter scoundrel!” the angel cried. “You wretched fiend!”

“Oh, angel, flattery won’t help you now,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale refused to let him deflect. “How dare you?”

“How dare I what?” Crowley objected. “How dare I play bird? I always play bird, you were just harping on me for not playing bird.”

“How dare you, how dare you _trick_ me?” Aziraphale accused triumphantly.

“I didn’t, I was _trying_ to let you win!” Crowley shot back. “I always play bird. You know that! I _know_ you know that. I thought you were going to play stone again, like you _never_ do, ‘cept for today!”

“Well, well, how was I supposed to know that?” Aziraphale asked, voice lowering. He honestly couldn’t recall when he had raised it.

“I always play water,” he said sadly.

Crowley heaved a dramatic sigh. 

“Listen, angel,” he said gently, “if it means that much to you, you can have the bloody newsletter.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale cooed.

He reached happily for the newsletter, then snatched his hand away.

“Oh, but I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”

Crowley gave him a long look. He wasn’t wearing any sunglasses to look over, but Aziraphale recognized the expression all the same.

He twisted his hands in distress.

“I really couldn’t,” he demurred, and to his surprise, he found the words to be true. He and Crowley were on their own side now.

Crowley deserved someone whom he could trust. Someone who was _worthy_ of his trust.

Aziraphale would have to be brave.

“Alright,” Crowley said, his voice soft despite the skeptical look he had just given Aziraphale. “Okay, so I’ll just… take it instead?”

“I, yes?” Aziraphale said, hands fluttering briefly before finding each other atop his stomach. 

Crowley didn’t move.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said more firmly, drawing himself up. “Yes, I think that would only be fair. You did win, dearest. You, you deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

“Right, good, yeah,” Crowley said loudly, grabbing the newsletter and twisting towards the doorway.

Aziraphale watched quietly as he hurried out of the room.

“‘Course,” Crowley’s voice continued from the hallway. “Sounds good. I mean not good, good’s bad, innit? Sounds bad? Or is it opposite now? Whatever.”

Aziraphale wondered if he meant to reply. He hadn’t the faintest idea of an appropriate response. 

Crowley called from another room. “I’m taking it, is what I mean! I have it now! Yeah. That.”

Aziraphale’s fingers found the familiar velvet of his waistcoat. Oh, he really hoped that he hadn’t done the wrong thing.

* * *

There was a moment of silence, which found itself abruptly axed by an unintelligible shout.

A series of equally undecipherable exclamations followed.

“Angel!” Crowley shouted, suddenly reappearing through the doorway.

He violently waved the newsletter in Aziraphale’s face.

“Have you _read_ this?” he shouted, pivoting out of Aziraphale’s personal space to stalk about the kitchen.

“No, my dear fellow,” Aziraphale said, only a touch tetchy. “I’m afraid I gave away my **only** copy **.** ”

“Well, do,” Crowley said, returning to shove the newsletter under the angel’s nose.

Before Aziraphale could reach up to grab it, however, he retracted it _once again_.

“Really now!” Aziraphale protested.

Crowley ignored him.

“Actually, no, just let me tell you,” the demon announced. “That’ll be quickest.”

No explanation followed. Crowley stood in front of Aziraphale, as wordless as a hedgehog caught in the headlights. 

“Tell me what, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, his patience spent. 

“Ngk,” Crowley said, “I, you. I mean, that is: we.”

The demon frantically waved his hands back and forth.

“I destroyed your toaster,” he blurted out.

“Again?” Aziraphale gasped. He turned to look at the two apparently unbroken toasters, instinctively raising his finger to dole out a proper scolding.

“What? No, forget the toaster,” Crowley snapped. “Work with me here.” He thrust the newsletter towards Aziraphale a third time. “Read this.”

Aziraphale snatched it greedily.

He scanned the text, itching to learn what had Crowley so worked up. Oh, he did hope that Crowley didn’t mind him sharing so much about their relationship. He had made quite an effort to preserve their anonymity.

He reached the end of the newsletter and hmphed, bewildered. Surely Mx. Marje couldn’t mean what he thought she was implying. He returned to the beginning of the text, rereading it carefully.

The contents of Mx. Marje’s letter remained stubbornly unchanged. He frowned at the print, desperately wishing for his reading glasses.

“Crowley,” he said slowly, feeling very confused. “You _hate_ being called the wrong name. The last time someone tried to change your name to 'Tony,’ you cursed them with printer jams every Monday _and_ six generations of dandruff.”

“Ngk, wlyh,” Crowley said. “I mean, yeah, but. I knew that you knew that, so. I was hiding in plain sight. Very sneaky, me. But that’s not my point!”

“You!” he accused, then said quietly. “You want to cuddle with me?”

“I, well, I mean, _yes_ ,” Aziraphale admitted. “And you… didn’t mean that you nest, when you said you were like a gorilla?”

“Nononoooo,” Crowley protested. “Why would I mean that?”

Aziraphale did his best not to appear disappointed.

“Gorillas don’t nest,” Crowley continued.

“My dear boy,” Aziraphale said crossly, “Sir Attenborough himself informed me that they do, in fact, build nests.”

“Don’t,” Crowley said, “but--" he gestured at Aziraphale not to interrupt “--doesn’t matter. For Heaven’s sake, angel! If you wanted to know whether I nested, why didn’t you just ask if I was like a bird?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said with great dignity, “would you _ever_ declare yourself to be unlike a duck?”

“I said ‘bird,’ angel,” Crowley protested.

“A duck is a bird, Crowley,” Aziraphale argued.

“I didn’t say ‘duck.’”

“They have feathers, and they fly.”

“See, I always told you penguins were bloody imposters. Can’t be birds.”

“This isn’t about penguins. I was _trying_ to determine whether you nested.”

“Could have just asked me if I was like a penguin. They build nests, the little freaks.”

“My dear fellow, enough. The point is that it would _not_ have worked for me to ask if you were like a bird. I hardly meant to ask whether you had ears or ate fish or were capable of loneliness.”

Crowley coughed but didn’t respond.

“I was _trying_ to determine whether you nested.”

Crowley realized that Aziraphale was impatiently waiting for a reply. 

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, with the right--” _Don’t say duck, don’t say penguin, don’t say bird_ , his brain chanted uselessly. “--person I do. I mean, would.”

Aziraphale’s gaze darted away, then back to Crowley’s. He opened his mouth to speak.

Crowley panicked. “With you! I mean, I would, if you would like, with me?”

“Of course, dear boy,” Aziraphale beamed, and _oh_ , then they were hugging again. “I would be honoured.”

“Honour’s all mine, angel,” Crowley said, bringing his arms up to encircle Aziraphale. “All mine.” 

* * *

“Angel?” Crowley said twenty-six minutes later, his breath gently ruffling Aziraphale’s hair.

“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale said, a bit muzzy from all of the love.

“Would you, er, I mean.”

Crowley took a deep breath. This close, Aziraphale felt the gentle rise of his chest and subtle shift of his shoulders.

“I have a sinfully big bed. Would you, maybe, want to try it out? Could be more comfortable, continuing this there.”

Aziraphale began to pull away.

Crowley panicked. “I mean, only if you want to, of course! And it’s, we wouldn’t ever do anything you didn’t want to--”

He fell silent, brain suddenly noticing the look Aziraphale was giving him. The angel’s eyes were brimming with an emotion Crowley wasn’t prepared to name.

Aziraphale reached out to him to initiate another hug.

If Crowley’s voice hadn’t already deserted him, the soft, warm embrace would have caused its immediate, euphoric death. 

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured. “That sounds positively lovely.”

The angel gave a reassuring squeeze, then pulled back again. “Lead the way?”

Crowley nodded, his voice still too preoccupied with a devastating amount of joy to attend to its usual responsibilities.

Their hands found each other, as easily as anything, and together, they left the kitchen for the first of many, many snuggles. 

* * *

[1] Excluding Aziraphale’s strange behaviour, the rapid (and admittedly terrifying) recent changes to their _relationship_ , the looming threat of Heaven and Hell’s desire for vengeance and war, and the murderous toaster that had been granted residence in their flat’s kitchen.

[2] Despite the fact that he had added Aziraphale as a co-tenant, Crowley _always_ fetched the flat’s post. He greatly enjoyed the routine opportunity to mix up his neighbours’ mail.[2a]

[2a]And, if the amounts of certain bills had been intractably frozen for the past couple of decades, that was just a part of Crowley’s demonic work. After all, inconveniencing landlords was a Tartarean sport in Hell.

[3] They both knew that Crowley _always_ won their coin tosses.

[4] Whatever they were, they were better than horses, and that’s all that mattered in Crowley’s world.

[5] Normally, Aziraphale was opposed to harming any of God’s creatures, but when it came defending the sanctuary of their nest, needs must. Besides, Crowley had a habit of healing any birds that Aziraphale happened to injure, so there wasn’t any _real_ harm done.

[6] He was, after all, a recently retired demon. Old habits die hard, and all that rubbish.

[7] The fact that he couldn’t think of a sufficiently cutting response was, of course, completely irrelevant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you have a happy and safe 2021!


End file.
